The Rules
by allyaustin
Summary: The rules? No kissing on the mouth, no staying the night, no telling anyone, and no falling in love. Ally just wants to finish college and focus on her life. Conveniently meeting star quarterback Austin Moon? Wasn't on her to-do list. Until a chance encounter leads to the possibility of something great. A hookup. Ally? Wants it remain that way. But that's cool, he has a plan.
1. Prologue

**Summary: The rules? No kissing on the mouth, no staying the night, no telling anyone, and above all…no falling in love. Ally Dawson just wants to finish college and focus on her life. Conveniently meeting star quarterback Austin Moon? Wasn't on her to-do list. ****That is until one chance encounter leads to the possibility of something great. Something they both need. A hook up. Simple. Unfortunately, Ally wants it to remain that way but that's cool. He has a plan and she's gonna fall. Hard.**

**A/N: This is based off a book I read. So some of the things in this is not 100% mine. I just wanted another smut story after I decided to stop writing for 'The Bet'. But anyways as always, enjoy. :)**

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><p><em>Prologue<em>

/ Ally /

He's like the fucking north wind. He blows in, and I turn his way.

And here he is again. Yeah, that one, the jock striding into class like he owns this university, which he kind of does. Football is a religion around here, and he is the chosen messiah. Which sounds kind of sacrilegious considering the fact that he's smacking a brunette on her ass as he leaves her at the classroom door. And she giggles, giggles, like it's a privilege to be degraded in front of thirty students.

And I suppose it is to some. God knows there's a pack of girls who follow him around campus, all wanting to meet Austin Moon, star quarterback, the phenom who will take us to the National Championship.

Their faith isn't exactly misguided. He's won it for them for the last two years. Even I remember those victories, the way the campus went wild, talk of Austin and his crew on everyone's tongue. I fled the campus for the safety of my apartment. Not that it did much good; the whole city had been awash in football fever.

As if he knows that I have this slight need to look at him, his eyes find me as he ambles along. Those eyes, dark brown beneath straight, dark brows. Their focus is complete, hard. As if he can reach right down into me and pull my heart out.

God, everything just bottoms out inside of me. My thighs tighten as my pulse picks up. I can't let him see, can't let him know that one look from him has me dry-mouthed and struggling for breath.

I don't look away—that would be too easy. Instead, I hold his gaze for three seconds, counting them out in my head as his loose-limbed stride brings him closer. 6'0", the guy knows how to move his body. Effortless. I'm sure he's never stumbled, bumped into a desk with his ass as he threads through the rows to get to his seat. No, not him.

Ridiculous.

I probably sound like a snob. Maybe I am. Don't get me wrong, this is the Florida, I know how important football is to people. Football. My personal association with football begins and ends with my dad shooing me out of the way whenever I stepped in front of the TV screen on Sundays. And Monday, and Thursday. Is there a day that football isn't on?

And my only personal experience with jocks was in high school. Complete ignorance of my existence comes to mind. Except that one time when a group of them managed to surround me in the hall. I spent a week in detention for kneeing one of them in the balls, a punishment I still find less than fair, especially since none of them had to go.

I don't understand football players. I don't understand the need to have your body bashed by some other guy while you throw a ball around. I like musicians. Wiry guys with long hair and haunted eyes. Eyes that make you want to search their depths. Not eyes that tell you something. Not eyes that say, I know who I am and I like it, and I know who you are—I see you, and you cannot hide.

Moon is getting closer. Close enough to see the way his arms flex and shift beneath his shirt with every step.

Okay, that's enough. I let my eyes drop, deliberately. You're not bothering me in any way. See? I have appraised you and moved on. Looking over my class notes is more interesting. By far.

He slides into the desk next to mine, and his long legs stretch out into the aisle. I feel his gaze on me, watching, waiting for an acknowledgment.

He's sat next to me since that first disastrous day of class. And because I am as much of a lemming as everyone else when it comes to picking my seat, I remain where I am. It would be one thing if this were a large lecture hall, built to hold three hundred students. No one would notice a shift in seating. But those rooms are reserved for freshman classes. Like a cattle round up, they pack in starry-eyed eighteen year-olds and see who guts it out.

But this is History of Philosophy 401. A specialized class filled with mostly juniors, seniors, and a few grad students, all of whom are either majoring in history or padding their final semesters with advanced classes.

To move would be to admit my weakness.

Professor Lawson enters, and class begins. I don't even know what he's talking about, I'm so distracted. My neck hurts from straining not to turn my head and look at Moon. It's a lost cause, I know. But I try my hardest to hold out for as long as I can. Have I mentioned that I'm screwed?

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><p><span> Austin /

Four weeks into the semester and I still get the cold shoulder from her. At this point, I've lost all game and have no idea how to get it back. I wish I could figure Ally out like I can football.

Football has always come easy for me. Don't get me wrong, I work my ass off to keep in top condition. What free time I have between practice and classes goes to working out or studying. I ignore physical pain and mental exhaustion on a constant basis.

But when it comes to the game? Effortless. Gripping the ball fills me with power. During a game, I don't fear the three hundred pound linebacker trying to take me out. I control my pocket, see paths, openings, opportunities. I talk to the ball and it listens, going where I want it to go more often than not. If no opportunity presents itself, I find one, running the ball, avoiding the hit, until I can make a play. It's that simple.

And it's fucking fantastic. The roar of the crowds, the victories, they're addictive. But never as addictive as the need to do it all again, throw that perfect pass, trick the defense with a brilliant handoff or pass fake. Because I can always do better. So, yeah, football is my joy. And I know how lucky I am to have found it, that I have the talent to be one of the best. If there was one thing my parents hammered into me, it was to appreciate what I have.

All of which makes Ally Dawson's disdain more irritating. She thinks I'm vain, a meathead. I should stay clear of her. There are tons of women who want to get to know me—kind of goes with the territory.

I still don't even know what it is about her that gets to me. She is pretty, luscious even, with the classic looks of a vintage pin-up girl. Beautiful face, a pert little nose, dark brown curls that tumble around her shoulders. But she isn't my usual type. Normally I prefer a girl who doesn't look at me as though I'm a hair that snuck into her salad.

So why can't I get Dawson out of my head? All I can see these days are her eyes glaring at me, not giving a shit about the glossy veneer of my fame—hating it, in fact. And it turns me on.

So here I am, slouched in my seat, watching her arms wave and her breasts bounce as she discusses philosophy's impact on society.

"Take Descartes," she's saying. "His move from trying to explain the 'why' of a question to observing the 'how,' helped forge modern scientific method. In antiquity, philosophers changed our world by constantly questioning the status quo."

Because I want her to acknowledge me, I speak up. "I agree."

Ally's mesmerizing brown eyes cut into me with one glare. Then, as if she realizes that glaring at me means an acknowledgement, she reins it in and gives me her profile, facing forward once more.

She clearly doesn't like it when I take her side. Hell, she doesn't like it when I join any conversation she's involved in. It's like I insult her just by speaking. Which pisses me off and makes me want to do it some more.

"Take his argument on dualism, that the mind not only controls the body but that the body can control the mind." I find myself grinning, watching Ally's tension rise, as I lower my voice, directing it toward her. "That one's passions can overtake rational thought and prompt them to act in irrational ways."

Ally's focus stays on Professor Lawson, but beneath her desk, her legs cross then uncross. Clearly, I've made an impression on her. Good. Now we're even.

"Is there a point to your mentioning dualism, Mr. Moon?" Professor Lawson asks, his wry tone pulling my attention back to him and the class. Shit, what was I saying?

I sit up higher in my seat, clearing my throat just as a few junior girls turn their heads to stare. "Ah, just that Descartes got people thinking about the relationship between the mind and the body in a different way."

Hell, I fumbled that one. My face feels uncomfortably warm. That's it, no more talking for me. And I'm grateful when the girl in the flower skirt jumps in. Only her eyes are narrowed at Ally in annoyance.

"I wouldn't say Descartes is such a hero. His belief that animals did not possess a soul led to wide-spread abuse of animals." The girl's expression grows irate as her voice climbs. "Vivisection, experimentation, neglect, these atrocities to animals can be drawn back to Descartes."

Since the girl's yelling this at Ally, all eyes are now on the both of them. Ally doesn't cower, though. Her response is smooth as cream. "Given that my argument wasn't about Descartes, but on how philosophers changed societal beliefs, I'd say you just proved my point."

Hell, but I like this girl. I like her quick mind and her fire.

Flower Girl, however is turning red. "So you're just going to ignore the ill his theory brought to the world?"

"I'm not ignoring it," Ally says. "But I also don't think we need to throw the baby out with the bathwater. He was responsible for a lot of positive changes as well."

Despite my former resolve to shut the hell up, I find myself saying, "Dawson is right, we can't judge the whole of a person's work based on one negative outcome. Shouldn't we give the guy a break? Maybe he had no idea the damage he'd do with a few misunderstood words."

I will Ally to answer that. She stubbornly ignores me. But she's the only one. As usual, whenever I talk, eyes turn my way. It's annoying, but I'm used to it. The fact that I'm defending Ally, however, sends curious glances her way as well.

I hear the brunette who's been trying to catch my attention for weeks now mutter in a voice meant to carry, "'Dawson?' He knows her name?"

A flush pinks Ally's cheeks. Tension lifts her shoulders, and I could swear that she's fighting the urge to duck her head. It's strange, as if she both wants to hide yet refuses to cave. But I have to be wrong. Nothing about Ally conveys shyness, and she didn't seem bothered when she was arguing with Flower Girl. Yet she drops off from the discussion and concentrates on taking notes.

Since she's no longer in the conversation, I lose interest as well. I resume watching her out of the corner of my eye and wonder if there's some sort of remedy for this kind of fascination. A sane man would give up the ghost and let her go.

Does that stop me from following her when class is over? From stalking her like some creeper as she heads to the food court at the Student Union? No. Not even a little bit.

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><p><strong>I will try to have the first real chapter up soon!<strong>


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary: The rules? No on the mouth, no staying the night, no telling anyone, no getting attached, and above all…no falling in love./ Ally Dawson just wants to finish college and focus on her life. Conveniently meeting star quarterback Austin Moon? Wasn't on her to-do list. That is until one chance encounter leads to the possibility of something great. Something they both need. A hook up. Simple. Unfortunately, Ally wants it to remain that way but that's cool. He has a plan and she's gonna fall. Hard. Game on.**

**A/N: This book is called "The Hookup." And as said before NO this is not 100%. I'm making minor changes to the story. I really liked the story and I couldn't stop thinking about Austin and Ally for some reason. But anyways here you go :)**

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><p><span>Ally/

When I started college, I loved it. I loved the freedom of choosing what classes I wanted to take and when.

I loved the exchange of ideas and the notion that professors were actually interested in what I was thinking. They might not always agree with me, but an intelligent argument was valued.

And I loved the anonymity of it. No one here knew the old me. I was no longer that weird loner who everyone assumed was smoking up before class. Which is kind of ironic considering I was never even offered drugs until I got to college.

There weren't any stupid cliques in college. Not, at least, in that incestuous way of high school. Sure, you could find one, create one, but there were too many students to even notice those groups. I loved being one of thousands, not one of a hundred. Because I could start fresh, be myself without being told that being myself wasn't good enough.

But now I've grown weary of school. My brain is tired. I don't want to spend another night writing papers or cramming for exams until my eyes blur. I don't know if it's normal to be twenty-one and burnt out, but that's how I feel. I just want it all to be over. And I still have a year left.

Of course, that fact brings its own brand of issues, as in what the fuck am I going to do once I'm out? I majored in European History because it interests me, not because I wanted to be a historian. The truth is, I don't know what I want to "be."

Oh, I have a list of life wants: happiness, security, excitement, and making enough money that I can travel whenever I want. But shouldn't I have an idea of how I'm going to live my life? Isn't that the way it's supposed to go?

I just don't know. It's been plaguing me of late. What to do? What to do?

And because the question brings a sick lurch of fear into my gut whenever I linger on it for too long, I try to ignore it.

I'm trying now, trying to study, trying to not think about the rest of my life. Only I end up staring off into space, my pen tapping against my class notes as I sit in the Student Union dining hall.

Students come and go around me, a constant chatter of voices punctuated by random bursts of laughter. I don't even know what I'm looking at when a familiar—and not appreciated—sensation steals over my skin, prickling it.

Don't react, I tell myself. Don't do it.

I turn my head anyway. And immediately spot him. Moon.

How does my body know? Why does it instantly perk up when he's near? It's like I have internal Austin Moon radar. I ought to be studied by the NSA or something. At the very least have my head examined. Because this has to stop.

My only consolation is that he's looking at me too. Maybe before I even noticed him, because our gazes instantly clash. A buzz goes through my body, a low, warm hum that has my lower belly clenching.

Maybe it is a simple matter of fascination that he keeps looking at me. And even though I know I'm not a toad, I can't help but wonder why. Why stare at me when he's surrounded by girls who are, by anyone's standards, gorgeous. God, he's probably thinking the same thing: she keeps looking at me. Only he's probably not wondering why. Everyone looks at Austin.

They're looking now. He's at the far side of the hall with a hulking group of football players, and all heads are turned his way. I've always thought Austin was big but he's big in a built way and tall. One of the guys next to him looks like he eats screaming villagers for breakfast. A linebacker, if I had to guess. He even has a beard, full and bushy.

The guys are laughing, talking to other friends who come up to see them. A group of girls head straight for them as if they've been waiting. And their arrival is greeted with appreciation.

But not by Moon. He's still watching me, his expression almost grim and so intent that my heartbeat speeds up. I want to look away. I ought to, but I just stare back like an idiot.

"Do you know Austin Moon?"

The question jumps out at me, loud and in my ear, and my pen clatters to the table.

"Jesus, Kira," I say as my best friend slips into my side of the both. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I can see how you'd be distracted." Her dark eyes shine with an evil light that I know means trouble. "What with you eye-fucking Moon and all."

My face is likely pink because it burns. "I'm not 'eye-fucking' anyone." It's a mumble. And there is absolutely no way I'm looking back at Austin now, even though I'm dying to.

Kira snorts and grabs a drink of my iced coffee. "Eye-molesting doesn't have the same ring to it, though." When I open my mouth to protest again, she waves me off. "Don't bother denying it. I know what I saw."

"How do you even know what I'm looking at anyway?" I slap my notebook closed and take back my drink. "I could have been checking the time." There's a big clock hanging on the wall behind Moon, so I'm hoping that excuse is believable.

Kira's smirk tells me it's not. "Because he was eye-fucking you back."

I nearly choke on my drink. "Would you please stop using that phrase?"

Kira laughs a little. "Sorry, but it was kind of hot and obvious, you know."

Fuck. Was it?

Her eyes narrow. "You haven't answered my question, and it's clear that you know him in some way."

When she shifts like she's about to glance in his direction, I react like I'm five, and pinch her thigh in a panic.

"Shit, Ally!" she squeals.

"I'm sorry. But don't look at him." The last thing I want is for Austin to know we're talking about him. I'd expire of mortification on the spot.

She glares, rubbing her thigh. "Drama Queen. I've never seen you so flustered. He's gone, by the way."

"I'm not flustered." I run a hand through my hair. "It's just… Don't make it something that it's not. We have a class together, and we happened to make eye contact just now. That's all."

God, I feel like I'm in junior high again. I hate it, and I hate myself for reacting the way I do. I've worked for years to harden myself, to no longer care what others think of me, to not need to care. My walls cannot crumble.

Thankfully, Kira shrugs. "That's too bad. He's totally hot."

"And he knows it," I mutter.

"How can he not? I mean, like, damn. That face. Those brooding eyes. Those pouty, kiss-me lips. I swear to God, he's like Captain Freaking America."

"I was always more of a Tony Stark kind of gal." I absolutely do not think of the animated gif I have on my computer of Captain America's fine ass rippling as he pounds a punching bag. Over. And over.

Ignoring me, Kira fans herself in dramatic fashion. "God, that body. You just know he's cut. Like a freaking diamond."

I try not to smile as I take another sip of coffee. "I need a nap."

"Oh, right, he's so boring to you. Or maybe you shouldn't stay up reading all night long. Which reminds me," she slaps my thigh, "we're so going out tonight."

"No." Usually I like going out, but lately I haven't had the desire.

"Don't you 'no' me." Kira leans in, her silky black hair sliding over her shoulder. "You haven't been out in weeks. Being a homebody is one thing. Turning into a hermit is just wrong."

"You pay way too much attention to my social life."

Her lips purse. "Kind of hard to ignore when we live together."

Freshman year, I started off living in a dorm, but that was a bit too much like high school for my liking, and the public bathrooms flat-out sucked. Then I met Kira, who also had a dislike of cinderblock walls and wearing flip-flops in the shower. We decided working to pay for an apartment of our own was worth it and moved out by the end of the year. Because we got along so well, we kept the place year round rather than go home during the summers.

Kira sighs, her slim shoulders lifting high before dropping. I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but she sees and plays on my weakness. "Come onnn, Allygator." Like a kid, she taps her feet on the ground in an impatient dance. "I don't want to go alone. I need a girlfriend with me tonight."

I snort. "Where do you want to go anyway?"

Her white teeth flash, a sharp contrast against her lightly dark skin. "A party."

"No."

"Ally! You haven't even heard me out."

"You know I hate parties." I suck at small talk and mingling. Give me a booth in a bar and a few good friends, and I'm a happy girl.

But parties suck.

Slouching back, Kira picks at the edge of my notebook. "I'm not going to leave you alone. We'll hang out."

"We can do that anywhere." I eye her with suspicion. "Why this party?"

She starts paying undo attention to the condensation on my cup, tracing patterns over it with the tip of her finger. "Well...Elliot—"

"Fuck."

"You have the filthiest mouth, Ally." This isn't a new complaint. She makes it constantly. Not that she's wrong. I curse when I'm stressed. Or annoyed. Okay, I curse all the time.

"No shit?" My cussing also tends to increase when Elliot Peters is mentioned. Elliot and Kira have been going out for two years, so you'd think I'd accept his presence in Kira's life. But I have to grit my teeth every time I see him. He's a smarmy asshole who treats Kira like window dressing. He doesn't so much talk to her as talk at her.

And though my friend is smart, funny, gorgeous, and independent, Elliot is her kryptonite. He weakens her, rending her blind to his many faults. Sure, he's good looking, dark-haired and dark-eyed with a nice smile. He's also the captain of the lacrosse team and makes sure everyone knows it. But I'm fairly certain he cheats on her. There are too many times when he doesn't answer her calls or has "important team meetings," you know, on Friday nights or holidays such as Valentine's Day. Yeah, right.

As much as I wish I could tell Kira to ditch him, experience with my mom tells me that I'd only strengthen her resolve and drive a wedge between us.

"I know you don't like Elliot," Kira says now.

While I'm able to keep my mouth shut, pretending to like him is more than I can take. The sleaze always, always, eyes my boobs and ass. Not in the normal way a guy might make a note of them, but in a way that makes me feel covered with slime.

"But he asked me to bring you," Kira continues.

Of course he did. He knows I don't like him. Which he takes as a challenge to piss me off. Elliot might be a dick, but he's a smart dick. He knows I'll look like a jerk if I resist his attempts at polite interaction.

"Why would he do that?" I ask.

"Because he wants me to be happy." She says this like it's obvious. "And he knows I want to have a friend with me at his parties."

Because he'll ignore her within five minutes of getting there.

"This isn't one of his team parties, is it?"

"No." Her eyes are wide and pleading. "It's just a party, Ally. Geesh."

"Fine," I snap. "I'll go."

Instantly, Kira hops up and down in her seat. "Yes! We'll have fun. And then we'll go dancing."

Kira is my opposite in all ways small. She loves reality TV, finds movies too long, and only reads when it's for an assignment. Her idea of fun involves a credit card and an open mall, and she has harbored a massive crush on Justin Bieber, despite all his WTFuckery, since her junior year of high school. Her continuing love of The Bieb is evident by the fact that her favorite nightshirt is a My World concert tee. And while the image of his face plastered over her boobs is more than creepy, I hate that she hides the shirt whenever Elliot comes around. Or rather, I hate that Elliot makes her feel like she should to hide it for fear he'll make fun of her.

Despite myself, I glance at the spot where Moon had been. He's gone and is probably making plans of his own. I suddenly feel restless. Wrong. Like I don't know who I really am anymore. Which makes no sense. Maybe I'm coming down with something.

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><p>As I rarely go to parties, I have no idea what to wear. Jeans and a t-shirt will just get me sent back to my room by Kira. She is definitely of the "if it ain't tight you ain't wearing it right" school, especially if she's planning to hit up clubs afterwards. However I am just as definitely of the "I refuse to be uncomfortable in the name of fashion" school of thought. So where does that leave me?<p>

After forty minutes of cussing and general clothes throwing, I'm in a white camisole and a soft, peach pleated skirt that hugs my hips.

Not wanting to leave my room, I procrastinate by peering into the mirror. My hair has a curl factor of three, which is acceptable, and my skin is clear. I apply a sweep of light eye shadow to make my eyes appear browner and dab a pale lip stain on my lips. So then, I've done all I can.

I tromp out to the living room for inspection time. Kira as usual, looks fantastic. I don't even know how she does it; she's wearing tiny black leather shorts and a silky indigo top that hangs over one toned shoulder and is open in the back. If I wore something like that I'd look horrible, but she's so lean and small, perfection on platform stiletto ankle boots that remind me of horse hooves for some reason.

Her dark eyes narrow as I stand there.

"What's with the boots?" she finally asks.

"You're wearing boots."

"Ankle boots. Totally different." Iris lets out a long-suffering sigh. "You look like you're going to a vamp ball in them."

"Watch it, Little Miss Belieber. I can still stay home."

She cringes. "Sorry. You know how I get before going out. Please just for all the love in the world, change into flats."

Yeah, crazy. Because she might disappoint Elliot the Dickhead.

Rolling my eyes, I sigh. "Fine."

I'm in and out of my room in record time sporting a pair of brown ankle boots.

She strides over to me, taller now in her insane shoes, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. The light, flowery scent of her perfume surrounds me. "You look gorgeous," she says. "God, I wish I had your curves."

"We can do an exchange, because I'd love to rock those shorts without terrifying the populace with my legs."

"Fine, my thighs in exchange for your boobs."

"Deal." We both laugh, having made this deal numerous times before.

We take Kira's car because I don't trust Elliot to drive me home, and I have a feeling she might go off with him later. So I'll drive hers back. I'd take my Vespa, but Kira doesn't like to drive to parties alone, and frankly, I'd get helmet head if I did.

Kira taps nervously on her steering wheel as we drive along listening to Adele.

"Why are you so worked up?" I finally ask. "More so than usual, I mean?"

Her eyes are wide as she glances at me. "No reason." And then she turns down a street.

Frat houses line the block. "Kira You said this was an off-campus party."

But it's clearly one of Elliot's horrible team bashes. Which involves beer bongs, guys pissing on the lawns—among other lovely locations—and basic imbecilic behavior. I was suckered into going to one once before and vowed never again.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Her expression is desperate. "But Elliot really wanted me to go, and you've been moping around the house lately."

"I have not been moping!"

"Staring out the window," she insists. "Like some tragic Jane Austen heroine."

"Austen's heroines aren't tragic. They are empowered."

"Says you. All those repressed feelings and prideful denials." Her snub nose wrinkles. "Pathetic. Just own your emotions already."

"Stop trying to change the subject. You kept this from me on purpose. Not cool."

Kira sighs as she pulls up in front of a big old colonial that's lit up like summer. People spill from the open door, and a girl, laughing manically, tumbles onto the lawn in a pile of limbs.

We both wince before she lifts her pleading eyes to me. "I just didn't think you'd come if I told you." She clutches my arm, and her hand is cold. "Forgive me, Allygator?"

"You should have taken Trent." Trent is Kira's twin and my other best friend. He usually goes to these parties with her, watching over his little sister while simultaneously hitting on all available women. It works for them. "Where is he, anyway?" I grumble.

"He says he's got a headache." Kira's mouth flattens in annoyance.

"Suspect." Trent never gets sick. He's practically inhuman that way.

Kira pulls out her lipstick and quickly reapplies while glancing in the review mirror. "That's what I said." Her words are muffled as she stretches her lips to get a good coat of glossy red over them. "But what could I do?"

"Not torture me?"

With neat efficiency, she caps the lipstick and plops it into her purse. "Well, where's the fun in that?" Her eyes sparkle in the low light of the car. "Besides, maybe you'll see someone you like."

"Kira…" My warning glare is lost on her because she's already jumping out of the car with surprising sprightliness, considering her heels. I follow, knowing I'll regret it.

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><p><span>Austin/

It's Friday night and I'm tired. My body hurts from a brutal practice. Not much difference from any other day, only I haven't been sleeping well and it's wearing on me. A certain brunette occupies my thoughts to a sleep-depriving degree. When I close my eyes, I picture her. Hell, I picture her with my eyes open too.

Mostly, I think of her in profile because that's what I see when I watch her in class.

Curves. Ally is endless curves.

In my mind, I map the pale column of her neck down to where it swoops out to one of her best curves: her butt and breasts.

I'm just enough of a shit that I long for the days when our classroom gets chilly and she wears one of those cotton shirts that does nothing to hide the points of her nipples pushing against the fabric. Damn, but that sight never fails to make me hard. I'm fairly dying for the chance to peel off her shirt and expose those nipples that so readily stiffen. I want to know their color, their exact size and texture. She's fair-skinned, so they might be pale pink, but I've seen the shadows they make beneath her white shirts, and I suspect they're a nice tawny rose that will go darker when sucked.

Yeah, I'm a sick bastard. But I doubt any guy would blame me. And I can't help myself. When I'm not thinking about her breasts, or the narrow dip of her waist and the rounded curve of her ass, I'm thinking about her innocent brown eyes.

I've got it bad. Bad enough to be sporting semi-wood in the middle of a crowded room. And she's not even here.

I take a sip of water, not really listening to the chatter around me. What does she do on her nights off? Frequent clubs? Hang out at a coffee house and chastise unsuspecting men on the unfairness of the glass ceiling? That makes me smile. I love the way her pert nose scrunches up when she's irritated and her wide brown eyes narrow into slits. Like she won't hesitate to kick someone's ass if she thinks they deserve it. Totally hot.

The water I'm drinking is warm and tastes of plastic. I set the bottle down harder than necessary. An antsy, irritable feeling grows within me. I don't want to be here. I've heard all these stories and jokes a thousand times before. And while I love my guys, I'm bored. I want to hunt down Ally Dawson, rattle her cage, and see what she throws at me. But I don't know where to start looking. And it pisses me off.

I'm about to tell Dez that I'll see him tomorrow, maybe hit the sack in an effort to at least try to get some needed sleep, when I feel a familiar tightening in my groin and along my back.

I have no explanation for how or why it is that I know when she's near. I just do. Like a magnet to metal, my body swivels and my head lifts. And there she is.

Everything stops. My heart in my chest. My brain function. Fuck me sideways. Just someone stick a fork in me. I'm done. She isn't in her standard t-shirt and jeans, or one of her soft little sweaters. She's in some strappy top that barely contains her breasts. Those are going to be the death of me. I'm afraid I've audibly groaned.

And damn if I'm not the only one who's noticed her. Too many eyes are glued to her chest. My hands clench. I'm no different than them, maybe worse, because I've made a habit of staring at her. But I'm itching to smack heads, send those eyes forward and off of her. I also have the sudden urge to whip off my shirt and tuck her into it.

She makes her way farther into the room, and I see the skirt. It clings and sways around her pale thighs. Strong yet soft thighs that I know would feel so good parting for me, that would wrap me up and hold me tight. Je-sus.

A frown mars her face, drawing her auburn brows close and pinching her lips. If there is anything I love more about her than her breasts, it's her lips. Deep pink and plump, those lips entrance me. Lips I've wanted to kiss since I first laid eyes on them.

She isn't happy to be here. And she scowls back at a pair of girls who look at her as if she's an intruder. I know those girls. Sports groupies. "Cock Jugglers" are what Dez calls them. And though it's crude, it's fitting. They've serviced more than half the team. Ugly experience has taught me to keep far away from them. I don't like the smirks they're giving Ally. She shouldn't be here. We shouldn't. I want to take her out of here and just drive somewhere. Maybe to that coffee house in my imagination. I'd be happy to have her lecture me on all the ways I annoy her.

Her eyes scan the room as if seeking a way out.

Look this way, I tell her in my head. Look at me. Give me those wide, brown eyes. Lock them on to me with that intensity I feel down to my bones.

Look at me.

Look at me.

As if she hears me, her pale shoulders tense, and my body seizes with hot anticipation. Her long lashes sweep upward and, bam, those eyes find mine. It's like being blindsided, only heat and breathless pleasure overwhelms me instead of pain.

Her full lips part as if she's taking a shocked breath, and I find myself doing the same. Jesus, I want her. She watches me, a mixture of anxiety and raw excitement gleaming in her eyes. I need to find a way to erase that anxiety. I need to know her better. Nothing on earth is stopping me from going to her.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins and my heart rate increases. Game on.

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><p><strong>I like this aloooot. Tell me your thoughts. I'll post another chap tomorrow! :)<strong>


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary: The rules? No on the mouth, no staying the night, no telling anyone, no getting attached, and above all…no falling in love./ Ally Dawson just wants to finish college and focus on her life. Conveniently meeting star quarterback Austin Moon? Wasn't on her to-do list. That is until one chance encounter leads to the possibility of something great. Something they both need. A hook up. Simple. Unfortunately, Ally wants it to remain that way but that's cool. He has a plan and she's gonna fall. Hard. Game on.**

**A/N: Nothing much to say except that not everything is mine and for you to enjoy.**

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><p><em>Ally/ _

Inside the house is just as I feared. Packed, hot, and loud. Guys appear to make it their sole purpose to shout out to one another. Inane music is pulsing through the speakers and bouncing off the walls.

Eyes follow me as I walk by. I don't belong. They know it. I know it. Girls frown as if trying to figure out why I am here and who invited me, and guys take long looks at my boobs. I'm now cursing my choice of top. And Kira.

Kira, who darts like a minnow through the crowd in her quest to find Elliot. The instant she does, he pulls her in and sticks his tongue down her throat. His hands grab her ass to haul her in closer.

Yeah. I don't have any desire to stand next to them now. My only refuge is to find a beer and a corner to nurse it in. Because of my three-inch boot heels, I hover at 5'4." High enough to see over some of the other girls' heads. Apparently high enough that when I move into another room, I instantly spot him. And he's looking directly at me.

Austin Moon.

Of course. I am now officially going to kill Kira.

I want to look away, but I can't. I never can when it comes to him. His mouth hangs open slightly, as if he's shocked to see me here, which makes two of us; I'm shocked to be here. But then, as if it dawns on him that it's really me and not a nightmare, his lips quirk up at the corners and a glint comes into his eyes.

I wonder if all my happy parts are somehow connected to his smile because they flare at that expression, going warm and tingly. Which annoys the hell out of me.

Then he moves, walking away from the group of people surrounding him without a backward glance.

Disabled as I am by my uncooperative body, I stand unmoving as he comes for me. His big body cuts through the crowd like a blade. God damn, but he looks fine, his long striding legs encased in worn and faded jeans that hug his thick thighs. His blue polo clings to his chest like a love song, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist.

In a room filled with boys, Austin is a man here. Taller, stronger, and just more. In an odd way, he doesn't belong here either. But the difference is they want him to belong.

His eyes stay locked with mine the whole time. It's unnerving. And enough to make my toes curl in my ankle boots.

He stops just before me. Way too close for a casual acquaintance. Even with my added height, I'm still inches below him and I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze.

"Ally Dawson," he drawls, "fancy meeting you here." That he appears pleased makes my insides dip.

"Not by my own volition," I mutter.

His lopsided smile grows. "Who suckered you into coming?"

"Iris, my roommate and soon-to-be resident on the missing persons list."

A light laugh breaks from him, and his eyes warm. "I don't know… I'm kind of grateful to her."

"You can thank her when she stops sucking her boyfriend's face off. As for me, I'm leaving."

Moon's brows snap together. "Now? You just got here."

"How do you know? I might have been here for hours."

He shifts his weight onto one leg, bringing him closer. "Dawson, I knew the second you walked in the door."

"Bull." I say it reflexively.

But he grins. "I shit you not."

My skin is too tight, my flesh too warm now. "How is that even possible?"

Another small laugh leaves him. "Seriously?"

And then he does it. His gaze travels down to my chest, lingering there as his nostrils flare, before slowly trailing back up to my face. When my glare registers, he merely gives me a sheepish look as if to say he knows he's busted but isn't really sorry for it.

Not that I can totally blame him. My boobs are swelling over the edge of my top. I have the desperate urge to hike the cami up, but I resist and cross my arms under my breasts instead. The action lifts my cleavage higher. A dare. I think. I'm not sure what the hell I'm doing anymore.

Color tinges the high crests of his cheeks and those hot eyes glide back down. "Okay," he says thickly, "now I know you're messing with me." Somehow, he's now less than a foot away. The fan of his lashes casts shadows on his cheeks as he peers at me. "But I'm willing to be tortured."

My arms drop. Nerves flutter in my belly. Yeah, I've been with guys. And I like sex. Love good sex, elusive as it is. But flirting with Austin? I can't handle it. He's too much. He makes my mouth dry and my hands twitch with wanting to run them over his taut chest.

The truth is I don't understand why he persists in talking to me. I'm nothing like his usual women. I'm not even nice to him. Something I refuse to feel guilty about.

"I wasn't offering," I say. Not precisely true. Which is why I need to leave. I turn, ready to hunt down Kira, when he moves to touch my elbow with the tips of his fingers. Pure instinct has me evading his reach. I know without doubt that if he touches me, I'm done for.

He frowns at the action, his hand dropping. But it doesn't stop him from speaking. "Stay." His voice is a soft caress that rubs over me.

"I'd rather go." It's both a lie and the truth. I can't think straight when he's near.

"I can't believe that." He dimples. "I mean, we get along so well."

He says it with just enough dry humor that I fight a smile and shake my head. "Let me guess, you've never approached a girl who turns out to be not interested in you."

Moon cocks his head as though taken aback and then gives his neck a scratch. "Well," he says slowly, "no, I haven't." A wide grin breaks over his face, all charm and dimpled hotness. "I can see that bothers you."

"Wrong. It simply reinforces my original impression of you."

"As what? Honest?" He leans in close. Close enough to notice that his breath doesn't smell like beer. "Here's the thing, Ally, I don't understand how you can find that a problem."

I blink and force myself to focus on something other than his eyes. "You don't see how never being told 'no' isn't a problem?"

His smile deepens. "Stop being obtuse. You're talking about my irresistibility. I'm talking about my honesty. Two vastly different topics."

My lips twitch. Damn it. "I don't recall saying you were irresistible."

"Besides," he goes on as if I haven't spoken, "I can't see what sort of culpability I have in girls wanting to get to know me. It's not like I'm bribing them or lying to have my 'wicked way' with them. It is what it is."

I stare at him a long moment, one in which he grins his stupid grin and I fight the stupid urge to return it.

"You know what? You're right."

"Finally!" he says to no one in particular before smiling down at me.

I give him a bland look. "So let's put it this way." I step into his space, glaring up at him. "I could not care less about football. I don't give a shit who you are or what you do or—"

My tirade dies when he leans so close that our noses practically touch. The look in his eyes isn't angry. It's triumphant. "Exactly, Dawson."

Two words and he's knocked the wind out of my sails. His not wanting me to fawn all over him is the last thing I expect. I start to frown. Maybe I even do. I can't stop myself from saying, "Well, hell."

And he bursts out laughing. A rich, full laugh that's so infectious, I respond to it, snorting a little as I try to keep from laughing too. Our eyes meet, and the air between us abruptly shifts. Base heat swamps me so fast that I lose my next breath. Maybe he does too because he goes absolutely still. A lion about to pounce. I blink back, the gazelle caught out in full sunlight.

But then a lumbering form comes up to us, and a big hand slaps down on Austin's shoulder. "Moon, my man," says the guy who has to be one of his linemen. "Kim here wants to say hello."

It's like I'm not even there. Not to His friend, who actually bumps me back with his arm as he gestures to some eighteen year old with over-bleached hair and a coy smile. Not when she slinks up to press herself against Austin's arm. "Hey, Austin," she breathes—breathes it, because I'm not sure I heard any actual consonants—"will you sign my shirt?"

Of course she's wearing his jersey, the number eleven splayed across her breasts. It's no shocker when she points directly to that area, in case he wasn't sure where he should sign.

I want to roll my eyes but don't. She's not the problem here. Austin isn't even the problem. I am.

"Well then," I say. "I'll leave you to it."

I turn and flee, hearing him call my name. But I don't look back.

I nearly reach the hall when he steps in front of me, halting my progress.

"Hold up." Moon's lips pull in a pout, which should look emasculating but simply makes him hotter. "I thought we were having a conversation."

"I think it was more like bickering," I say, and when he starts to smile, I hurry on. "And it was clearly over."

His lush mouth flattens. "Why? Because of that interruption?" He gives a little jerk of his head in the direction of his number one fan.

I shake my head. "Don't let me keep you, honestly."

Instead of backing off, he takes a step closer, and his voice lowers. "But I'd rather be talking to you."

My heart is beating so hard now I feel it in my fingertips. I don't know where to look or what to do. My gaze settles on the leather cord he wears around his strong neck. I've never seen him without it. A small rectangle of polished wood hangs from the cord, dangling just below the hollow of his throat. My fingers itch to touch the pendant, to trace along the cord up to the stubble that starts just below his jaw. I lift my hand to do just that when a masculine shout snaps me out of it.

"Moon!" Yet another one of his teammates seeking his attention. The freshman is still there, waving to get his attention.

I glance that way. "You're obviously busy."

A frustrated breath escapes him, and he runs a hand through his hair. "What was I supposed to do? Tell her to get lost because I'm trying to impress another girl? Pretty counterproductive to act like an asshole, if you ask me."

I'm kind of stuck on the whole "impress another girl" part. In fact, the moment he said it, my heart stopped altogether and heat rushed my face. Why me? What is he thinking?

My throat closes in on me, and I swallow hard. "Sorry, but you're paying attention to the wrong girl." I edge toward the hall and freedom. "I'm not interested."

A flush of color washes over his cheeks, and his eyes turn cold. "Bullshit."

When I flinch, his voice softens and slides through my defenses like a spoon into pudding. "You may think I'm a moron but I'm not blind. I'm in danger of developing a permanent neck kink from checking you out. And if the number of times you meet my eyes is anything to go by, then you are as well."

My cheeks must be flaming red by now. I'm too shocked to reply, but it doesn't stop him from edging closer. Close enough that his low murmur rings crystal clear in the small space between us. "Why don't you tell me what the real problem is and we can address it?"

Address it. Like I'm something he wants to figure out and fix. Something he wants to keep. The whole idea is so foreign to me, and so terrifying, that I end up snapping. "Why don't you just let it go? Some games you aren't going to win."

He scowls but when he opens his mouth to reply, I talk over him. "Disappointment is good for the soul, Moon. I'm sorry but I have to go."

This time he doesn't get a chance to stop me, or maybe he just lets me go. I leave as fast as I can without actually running, and another friend approaches him. Which is all good. And maybe if I tell myself this enough, I'll believe it.

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><p><em>Austin/_

That went well. Ally Dawson's gorgeous ass sways as she walks away from me. A perfect counterpoint to the swish of her skirt and the bounce of her brown curls. I want to grab her and press her up against the nearest wall so that I can taste her tart mouth. I wouldn't even mind if she bit me, just as long as her tongue soothed it afterward.

Fat chance of that. I stay where I am, defeat and disappointment—yes, thank you, Miss Dawson, I'm well aware of that emotion now—crashing into me like a bad hit.

"Shit." I rub my ribs where the phantom pain spreads wide.

It's even worse when I see Dez sauntering over. Dez is my teammate and best friend. We met when we were fifteen. We are both from Miami and had played against each other before but had never talked until then. When my parents died, Dez was the only one I could stomach being around because he had lost his mother to breast cancer the year before. Which means he knows me better than anyone alive. This is going to suck.

Dez's obnoxious grin is wide and pleased. "'Crash and burn, huh, mav?'"

I glare, itching to punch that stupid smile off his face. "I never should have introduced you to the glory that is Top Gun. You don't deserve it."

When he laughs, I roll my eyes. "How long have you been waiting to use that line on me?"

"About four and a half years, give or take." He slings a meaty arm around my shoulder and attempts to pull my head down for a noogie. I duck away and slap the side of his head lightly. Though it takes restraint not to bap him harder. I'm not in the mood. Not that Dez cares. He's still grinning.

"What's the matter? Brown didn't respond to the 'Moon' cry?"

"Fuck off, Dez." There isn't much heat to my request. My mind is still on Ally, and my body is itching to follow. Shit, I'm so screwed. Something pathetically close to a sigh lifts my chest as I stare in the direction she took—fucking fled—to get away from me. Like I was a disease she needed to stay clear of.

Which is unfortunate. Because it's still there, that insistent clamor in my head that says: Her, her, her!

Not so great when she seems to have a cry in regards to me that goes: Run, run, run!

I don't understand it. I wasn't lying to her, and I don't think I'm deluded, when I said that we've been virtually eye-fucking each other for the past month. Fortunately, I didn't call it "eye-fucking;" she'd probably have my nuts in a clench if I had. Not that I'm entirely opposed to her touching my nuts…

"Shit." I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then pinch it harder when I realize that Dez is still there watching.

"Dude," he says, "let it go. This is getting embarrassing."

"Why?" I snap. "Because I have to work for it? For once?"

The masochist in me kind of likes it. I sure as hell love it when she's all snappy and taking me to task. If I could get her to do it while I suck on her neck, feeling the vibrations of her voice as she talks, or maybe have those legs wrapped around my back while she's doing it, and I'd push into her heat, making her groan just a little between arguments.

I take a deep breath. And another. I'm so screwed if Dez sees me with a hard on. Thank God for jeans. And the fact that Dez is still babbling too much to look down.

"Sex shouldn't be work," he insists. "It should be easy. Girls come to us, give us a good time, and we send them on their way with a nice thank you and maybe a pat on the ass if they're extra special."

"I pity your bed partners."

"They have a good time," Dez says. "A great time."

"Sure. You let them do all the work while you lay back like a lazy shit. Sounds awesome for them."

He gives me a sour look. "Well, you sound like a girl."

"If I was one, I wouldn't be fucking you."

"You could do a lot worse—" His face goes red. "Damn. Would you stop that shit? I hate when you make me twist my words."

I can't help grinning. Ally seemed to like it when I twisted her words, until she fled that is. And there's that pathetic sigh again, making me sound like a sap. Damn, but I want to talk to her.

Maybe she thinks I want what Dez's offering. A simple hook up. Maybe I ought to tell her I want more. I want her. The whole prickly-mouthed, sweetly curved, irresistible package.

Telling her that wouldn't be stalking, would it? Shit, I don't even know. Dez's right in one regard, I obviously suck at pursuing. But if there's one thing I understand, it's practice. I excel at perfecting my technique through practice.

Ally still hasn't come back down the stairs. Which means I'm going up.

"If my efforts bother you so much," I say to Dez without taking my eyes off the shadowed hallway that leads to the second floor, "I'd look away now." I give him a light slap on the chest and head off.

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><p><strong>Reviews are cool!<strong>


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